Free The Children and the Blood by Skye Malone, Megan Joel Peterson

tracked over to him.
    “Where’s this road go?” he asked, clenching the wheel as they flew around another turn.
    Incrementally, her gaze turned to the darkness, and lingered there.
    He grimaced. She wasn’t even seeing the road right now.
    “Girl!” he called, trying to draw her back.
    “I don’t know,” she answered numbly. She blinked a few times, and then her gaze dropped to her lap. Gently, she ran her fingers over her sister’s black hair.
    He looked back at the road, trying not to swear.
    The road crested and then began to descend in a rapid series of dips and curves. On the left side of the car, the foliage-covered mountainside disappeared, leaving only a steep drop-off. Slender trees clung to the cliff, the only real barrier between the car, the open air, and the shimmering river a terrifyingly long distance below.
    He swallowed hard, focusing on staying on the road. A bit farther downhill, a wide bridge arched across the river. Under the starlight, the open space seemed cavernous, welcoming anyone chasing them to see their car from miles away. Taking a breath, he guided the sedan into the winding curves, fighting the urge to just floor it.
    The tires hit ice.
    Frantically, he cranked the wheel and hit the brakes, feeling them pulse madly beneath his feet. Skidding sideways, the sedan careened through the turn and caught a tree against the rear door. The impact whipped the frontend around hard, and in an instant, they slammed into the trees.
    Someone was screaming. Sluggishly, he looked around. The girls were pressed against him and the noise was the ringing in his ears. But his face was warm. With a thick hand, he reached up, smearing the blood trickling down his cheek.
    A small gash. Nothing bad. Debris from the rear window was all.
    Details started to play back through his mind.
    Blinking slowly, he looked to the left. All the side airbags had deployed, saving him from impaling his skull on the broken window, but he couldn’t see anything past the gaps between them. It was just black. And then he glanced up at the windshield.
    The truth hit him like ice water.
    They were resting against the trees. The tiny slivers of trees clinging to the sheer edge of the mountainside.
    His head turned, though his body was afraid to move. The older girl raised her head and looked at him dazedly.
    “Get out,” he said, his tone meticulously calm. “Climb out the passenger side right now.”
    Her gaze moved to the windshield, to the trees, and then to the darkness. Already pale, her face lost every shred of color it still possessed.
    Shaking her sister’s shoulder, she roused the child and then motioned jerkily for the girl to climb out over her. Trembling, the child obeyed.
    “Come on,” the older girl said to him, her voice tense.
    “Just go.”
    She reached over, taking his hand and pulling him with her.
    The car shuddered as they moved, and if he’d had anything left in his stomach, it would’ve risked coming back up right then. His arms felt like lead, and his body was thoroughly engaged in hating him for all he’d put it through. At the edge of the seat, the girl paused, waiting as he scooted over the console and inched toward her.
    She yanked him with her as she fled the car. Stumbling out after her, he swallowed hard, while the car sagged farther into the creaking embrace of the trees.
    “Thanks,” he said.
    With a tiny nod, she stared at the car, and then her eyes went to the road.
    He followed her gaze. A hundred yards ahead, the bridge waited, its broad expanse practically glowing beneath the starlight. It’d take forever to cross, and they’d be visible the whole time. And even if they reached the opposite side, without a car they’d still be sitting ducks for everyone chasing them down this road.
    Which left heading up.
    He glanced at the mountainside, his eyes tracing the treacherous path to the top. If they could reach that, and the damned cell phone started working, maybe they could hide